George Eliot Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

George Eliot

Life is no more than hay; a small piece, a dandelion
The guest of the winds, shaking willow-like.

I, the butterfly flown over seas, lands, hills and mountains,
Now, nail-like, in the largest prison ever
Host sister and her husband so drive around, a chauffeur,
It is little of me… more them…

Sick as always; in love as always, curious as always
I Whirled and whizzed, and landed where the peach festival
Means a lot, for the last nineteen years but was over
Summer shades festival was in place…
Flea markets and among them books

Five for a single dollar:
Poe, Plato, George Eliot
And…
Spy; The Pioneer by Cooper.

Most books have notes on the front pages
(Most of them…dead…lines linger, remained)

In a glance, among the pages I see the mist of the maid
Niagara’s wasps, ants or… cells of blood…dead or alive.

She used a male pen name, to ensure her works would be taken seriously and judged separately from her already extensive and widely known work as an editor and critic; Poe did not get such a chance.